


Damned if You Do. . .  Damned, Period

by shealynn88



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: F/M, Yuletide, challenge:NYR 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-01
Updated: 2007-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shealynn88/pseuds/shealynn88





	Damned if You Do. . .  Damned, Period

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hotelmontana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotelmontana/gifts).



 

 

Thirteen days after I kill my brother, Deb comes over and pours herself a glass of Pinot Noir.

She sits next to me on the couch, clutching the globe of the glass with white-knuckled fingers, her thigh nearly touching mine. I'm pretty sure it'll annoy her if I move away, so I just sit very still.

"I still dream about him. Every fucking night," she says in that clipped tone that usually means she's mad at me. She shows no sign of easing up on the glass, and I'm starting to worry she's going to break it.

Maybe I should get a steam cleaner.

"I don't understand why. Fucking _why_ he'd kill them and fucking _play_ with me, like a God-damned mouse. Make me think..." She glances down at her hand--the one I'd had to take the ring off so she didn't take her finger with it--and I'm sorry for what she's had to go through, all because I didn't want to be alone.

"It was probably a control thing," I tell her calmly. "He was escalating. Looking for a bigger payoff, maybe." I shrug and give her a smile that I hope is sympathetic. "I guess we'll never really know." It's the truth. All except the not knowing part.

It was never really about her.

She leans her head against my shoulder and her fingers slide against my leg as she searches blindly for my hand.

She's all I have left, now.

I take her hand and she sets down her glass of wine before she shifts closer.

"You're the only person I can trust, Dexter. I can't believe I didn't _know_ , somehow. I should have felt it. Shouldn't I?" She lifts her head up to look at me--so trusting. Big brother will make it all right.

I kiss her forehead instead of answering because I can't tell her what I'm thinking. That maybe she can't feel that kind of wrongness because she's learned to trust it in me. Maybe the whole reason she fell for him in the first place is that he felt familiar.

The thought is a little disturbing.

"A monster like that has to be charming just to survive," I finally tell her. Charming or just...unassuming. That's always worked for me. "It's not your fault." That, at least, I believe completely.

She gives me a tiny smile. "How do you always know what to say?"

I shrug and kiss her nose, hoping the heart-to-heart will be over soon. "Just charming, I guess."

She smacks me on the shoulder. "Don't even joke like that! I feel like I'll never be clean again. God, I had _sex_ with him. I _loved_ him. Jesus, Dex, it makes me sick just thinking about it."

"Don't think about it, then." It's what I've been doing. With limited success.

She snorts. "I wish it was that easy." When she looks at me again, she tips her head in consideration. "Dexter," she whispers, so low I can barely hear it. She looks very serious, and I have a feeling I'm not going to like what she has to say.

"Debra."

"You trust me, right?"

"Yeah." As much as I've ever trusted anyone since Harry.

I try not to think of how it could have been with my brother.

"Get him off me, Dexter." Her hand slips from my shoulder across my chest, slides down and catches at my waist, and I'm not sure where this is going, but I have a feeling it's not good.

"He's gone," I tell her softly. I already got rid of him. I did my part. I kept her safe.

"I dream about him, Dex. I feel his hands on me _all the time_. I need you to _help_ me."

"Deb, I'll do everything I can, but maybe you should see a therapist or something, you know? This isn't my specialty."

"You're the only person I can trust," she says again, and then she leans in and kisses me like she's hungry and scared, like she's not my sister at all.

It's not like Rita kisses. She's soft and hesitant. She reminds me what a good boyfriend is.

This is not helping me remember what a good brother is. It's got an edge to it--desperation and fear and need, and it speaks to the darkness inside me.

I taste salt and I pull away for just a second--just long enough to see that she's crying, and she whispers, "Please."

I hear Harry telling me to take care of her, to lean on her if I need to.

I know this doesn't follow the Code. This isn't what he meant. But there are a lot of things he didn't know, and even more that he didn't tell. And sometimes you have to bend the rules a little bit. Working with cops has taught me that.

I kiss her back and I try to keep it gentle, because that's what I'm supposed to be to her--her protector. The one person in the entire world that she can trust.

God, this could totally screw things up for us and I can't let that happen. Not now. I just gave up everything I could have been because of her.

"Deb," I manage, between the frantic meeting of our lips. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea..."

"Don't," she says firmly. "Don't you go all fucking good son on me! It can't _be_ anyone else, Dexter. I swear to God, I'll scrape my fucking skin off if I don't get him _off_ me. Do you have any idea what it's like? What I have to do, just to keep it together and do my job, just to hold on long enough to drink my God-damned coffee in the morning? I _need_ this, Dex. I won't ask again, I _won't_ beg." She's proud and stubborn as hell. Not even Brian could take that from her.

The tears are running down her face again, and I can still taste them on my tongue. I wonder if that's what grief tastes like.

 _Or terror_.

He's on my skin, too.

Brian. Brinney.

He's in my head and I don't think I'll ever be rid of him. But then, I don't really want to be.

She takes my hand and I move with her, sliding fingers under her shirt and against her stomach. Her fingers tangle with mine and her skin is smooth. I've never thought about touching her like this. This intimacy thing is...different with her.

I don't love her. Not really. But she's as close as I've ever come. It makes me curious to know if it'll be different with her...if I'll connect somehow, like people are supposed to.

And I wonder, too, deep down, if I'll be closer to him if I touch her like he did.

She was how he got to me. She was what brought us together and tore us apart. Everything that's left of him, save the doll's head on my keychain, is on her, inside her.

This truly is all the family I have left in this world.

I slide my hands higher, count each rib and then skim around to trace the delicate musculature of her back, the curve of her spine. There's a scar on her shoulder that she got during a game of basketball in the driveway. I can trace our history together by tracing her imperfections and just as the photographs gained meaning when I realized they were about Harry, this gains meaning when I realize it's my life. We're a part of each other because we share these memories.

Just like Brian was a part of me. And always will be.

She kisses me again, and I kiss her back--rough and deep, and she's closer to the real me than she'll ever know. As close as I'll ever let her get.

"Dexter," she whispers into my mouth, and I press her back against the couch cushions, my hands sliding over her breasts and throat--parts of herself that she gave to him. That he was the last person to touch.

He didn't love her. Didn't begin to care for her as I do. But she's our connection, and I honor that when I pull her shirt off, let her shove mine off my shoulders without bothering to undo the buttons.

She bites my earlobe and my vision washes red as I dig fingers into her hips and she wriggles under me.

_Struggles._

Sex has never been part of the thrill for me. At best, it's a pale reflection of the release I feel when I kill. At worst, it's messy and awkward and kills the relationships I need to look normal.

But sex was part of the thrill for him, I think. It was like foreplay--it made the kill more personal. More playful.

That's not the way I work. It's not part of the Code. But I can't help thinking about it as Deb unzips my slacks and pushes them off my hips. I help her get them off and then she's squirming underneath me again, shimmying out of her pants.

There's power in this, no question. Right now I'm not sure if it's hers or mine--but that's not important. What's important is that I could make it mine if I wanted to. At any time, I could take control.

_Because she trusts me._

"Dexter," she whispers again. "Don't stop." She wraps her legs around my waist and nods. _I'm ready_ , she's saying.

I'm not sure if I am, but we've gone too far to stop. _I've_ gone too far.

It's awkward. Isn't it always? I haven't had nearly enough practice to make it smooth. Not like Brian.

It takes three tries, and then she tilts her hips up and I'm sliding inside her, and yes, Hell yes, this part feels good. It's not emotional, it's purely physical--I'm not immune to that.

"Fuck, yes, Dexter," she says, and she moves her hips up to meet me, digs nails into my biceps until the pain shoots down my arms, and that's good too. Jesus, Rita's never done that.

It's violent, the way she pulls me down and kisses me, mouth wide and panting. It's almost like fear--the same kind of passion, the same quickness of breath.

I close my eyes as the dark part of me remembers the look on her face when she was helpless on the table and my hand tightens in her hair. It would be so easy to let go.

"Dexter, look at me," she says, and this is the part I hate. When our eyes meet, and mine are empty. This is when I lose them. When they figure out that I'm...other.

"Fuck! Dexter!" Her voice is strained and she's pressing back against every thrust; our bodies slide together easily now, slick with sweat.

I grab her face in my hands, my thumbs against her throat, and I can feel the flicker of her pulse as I watch her eyes, dark and half-lidded and full of trust.

Her legs tighten around me, her nails dig harder into my arms, and then she's keening and shuddering and it's too much--I lose control as I come and my thumbs press down on either side of her throat--it's the arteries that are really important.

My vision is swimming and our eyes meet, her shudders are slowing but she's not struggling at all. All I see when I look in her face is trust, and I feel...well, it's not love but it's something.

I release her abruptly and watch my thumbprints flush white to pink again.

Deb laughs a little, soft and satisfied--and then she lets her legs fall to either side of me. "Wow," she says softly. "I need some water."

I clamber off her and shake my head 'no' when she asks if I want anything, and then I go to the bathroom to clean up.

I stare in the mirror for a long time. My reflection never changes. I don't know why I thought it would. It's never really shown me who I am, anyway.

Deb falls asleep on the couch and I head to my room. I lie awake most of the night wondering if we're changed. If she'll know what I am after this. If she'll expect to do this again, because I don't think I can.

I stop staring at the ceiling at five thirty. I start cooking breakfast at six.

"Oh my God, I'm starving," Deb murmurs, sitting up. She got dressed before she fell asleep. That's a relief.

Her hair is tangled and slept in, and I laugh, because it's the normal thing to do, as her brother. I don't think there's much of a precedent for 'normal' in a situation like this. I have to fall back on what Harry's taught me.

"Here," I say, handing her a cup of coffee as she slides into a chair. "I made steak."

"Mmm...you're a God-send," she says, taking a sip and closing her eyes in a vague reflection of the ecstasy of the night before.

We eat together without talking. She eats like she's starving--three eggs, one steak, four pieces of toast--she's always had this hellish metabolism.

She glances at the clock on the stove every five minutes, and finally gets up with her mouth still full of toast. "I've gotta get going," she mumbles. "You comin'?"

I shake my head. "I've got some errands to run." I need to be alone.

She shrugs. "Kay."

I walk her to the door. "Make sure you stop at home." I gesture at her hair and she runs her fingers through it and laughs.

"Oh, yeah. It's fucking everywhere, isn't it?"

I just nod.

"Hey, look," she says, finally swallowing her toast. "Thanks." She kisses me on the cheek before she heads out the door with her usual swagger.

She's better. Not fixed, I know, but she's eating and joking and being her old self. He's not haunting her anymore.

Whatever pieces of him she had are clinging to me, now. His hand ghosts against the back of my neck, his voice whispers our secrets like a silver-tongued devil.

This is the way it should be.

It was never really about her, anyway.


End file.
